


everything i’ve built has been in your absence

by coveredinsun



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Wilbur-centric, because he deserves it, but it’s canon character!phil so like.... is it not expected, but tbh im actually proud of it?, im simply ignoring canon wilbur sshhhhhh, implied child neglect, mainly because in canon wilbur is a bad dad and here he is definitely NOT, no like fr lots of angst, oh also Cool Uncle Tommy is there, sometimes a family is a single dad his trans furry son and a Big Man uncle, theres an unruly amount of projection here so just look away, you can pry the cool uncle tommy hc from my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29383989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinsun/pseuds/coveredinsun
Summary: Wilbur was twelve years old then. Still, he remembers all too well the anger that bubbled up inside him, and he certainly remembers the promise he whispered, a promise to never become just a set of footprints and the click of a closing door.
Relationships: Floris | Fundy & TommyInnit, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 20
Kudos: 240





	everything i’ve built has been in your absence

**Author's Note:**

> say it with me yall ANGSTY BLOCK MEN ONESHOT
> 
> inspired by art by timetocrybois on tumblr!!! specifically, this one: https://timetocrybois.tumblr.com/post/642890268717219840/read-left-to-right
> 
> this fic is about their CHARACTERS dont forget it

Wilbur’s greatest source of pride is that it is **_warm_** in his home. 

He could still feel the shivers sometimes, the chill of a cabin in dead winter only inhabited by two children– neither of which were old enough to work a fireplace, but they’d be damned if they didn’t try.

He could recall huddling near that fireplace, silently begging for any spark to come out of his futile scraping and scratching. He could recall giving the young child all the extra blankets and insisting his thickest yellow sweater was enough to keep him warm. 

(It wasn’t enough, but he would act like it.) 

He remembers the attempt at sewing new boots for a four-year-old, and he remembers each deep breath he took when his little brother got fussy from eating the same food nearly every day and he had to explain _again_ that they really didn’t have anything else. He remembers the tears that fell when he came to realize he was never taught how to knit his growth spurt-ing little brother a new sweater. 

And he remembers the days the two would look at the window and wonder how much longer they would need to do this for.

(How much longer they _could_ do this for.) 

He could still feel the cries that racked his little brother’s body when the front door closed and two sets of footprints grew further and further away, as they had many times before. He could still feel how hard his little brother shook, how much the eight-year-old pulled at his sweater and tried to convince himself that the usual “be back soon” was actually truthful. 

Wilbur was twelve years old then. He remembers all too well the anger that bubbled up inside him, and he _certainly_ remembers the promise he whispered, a promise to never become just a set of footprints and the click of a closing door. 

Years later, he cannot help but feel proud when a gust of chilly winter air distracts him from the book he’s reading, because it means that it is **_warm_** in his home. Now, Wilbur can watch someone walk in the door and not anticipate the next time they’ll leave.

“Wilbur!” Tommy called, heading straight for the kitchen table, “Come here, I got some good shit!”

Wilbur folded over his page and set the book onto the desk beside him. He shivered a little when he walked past the front door, but was quickly overtaken by the warmth radiating from the stove. ”You go and change, I’ll look through it. Oh– and don’t wake up Fundy, because he’s actually taking a nap for once in his life _._ I’m just the _teensiest_ bit exhausted, so if you wake him up, you deal with it.” 

Tommy scoffed, jokingly punching his brother in the shoulder. “What, did he kick your ass in your snowball fight _that bad?”_

“Yes,” Wilbur sighed, snickering a little as he continued, “He totally beat my ass.” 

They both knew the _real_ reason for his exhaustion, the real reason Tommy always came around and helped out this time of year. It wasn’t worth mentioning out loud– to Fundy, it was the good few weeks when Uncle Tommy hung out at their little cabin presumably as an extra birthday treat; to Wilbur, it was the bad few weeks he looked at his son and saw the spitting image of his late mother. 

The extra help was truly needed the first couple years, when Wilbur was struck down by grief and his son much too small to take care of himself. Tommy stayed for months at a time those years, only ever leaving for a day at most to let others know that he was okay. (Once or twice Tubbo had even visited, immediately very fond of his friend’s nephew.)

But those times were few and far between. Tommy _stayed._ He helped as much as he could, between hunting or farming or fixing a broken door or braiding the child’s hair or teaching him a new word (“‘Pog’ isn’t a word, Tommy!”) or cooking the little one’s favorite dinner because Wilbur was having a particularly bad day and couldn’t muster the energy to do it himself. 

Tommy would die before admitting he actually _enjoyed_ being there for his brother, but Wilbur seemed to get that message just fine without the use of words. 

Some time had passed since then, as Fundy was now turning seven, but Tommy didn’t stop coming every year. Tommy popped in many other times all throughout the year, but those were sporadic and random. This visit was special; two or three weeks at the end of winter, letting them all know that spring’s warmth would soon arrive. 

(Fundy assumed it was a birthday gift every year and nothing more. That was fine with Wilbur, because the truth was a conversation he just wasn’t ready for yet.) 

(Besides– Fundy believed Tommy brought the spring with him every year, and who’s to tell him he’s wrong?) 

Now Tommy crept up the stairs to the “guest” room that was more _his_ than anyone else’s. On the way he caught a glance of a tuft of red-orange hair peeking out from the blanket on the kid’s bed (he’d gotten it from his mother, like many other things) which just confirmed what Wilbur had told him. Quietly, Tommy continued on, because he’d seen firsthand the endless energy this child possessed, and it reminded him of himself so much that he made a mental note to ask Wilbur how he managed to raise either of them. 

Downstairs, Wilbur inspected the things Tommy had brought in, which was mostly food. Some mutton, some beef, a few nice-looking potatoes, even a couple freshly-baked loaves of bread from the village nearby, who at this point was familiar with the entire family and welcomed them for trading any time. There was even a chestplate, which Wilbur made a note to put in the weapons closet behind the bookshelf. 

Tommy returned downstairs in more comfortable-looking clothes (they were practically pajamas, because Fundy wore pajamas most of the time, claiming they were too awesome to not wear around the house, and eventually Wilbur and Tommy picked up the habit), and the two briefly discussed what they should make for dinner. They decided on baked potatoes because Fundy only tolerated them, nothing more, and they were saving his favorite foods for his birthday, like every year. It was a necessary evil. The kid would understand, or at the very least would get over it when he had pumpkin pie on his birthday.

“So, got anything else happening this week?” Tommy asked from the sofa as Wilbur prepared the potatoes. 

Wilbur shrugged in response. “Not much. Niki is coming over sometime this week, and she’s going to give Fundy some flowers as a birthday present. Other than that, nothing.” 

“That’s sweet of her,” Tommy gazed out the window as snowflakes began to fall, probably the last snowfall of the season. Then he looked over to Wilbur with a somewhat maniacal grin. “But my present is better.” 

“Please. You know you don’t even need to bring a present, Tommy. Your mere presence is enough of a gift.” Wilbur’s comment would have been heartwarming if it wasn't half-wrapped in a layer of sarcasm. (But only half.) 

“Exactly, because I’m the only one who actually gets shit done around here,” Tommy teased, to which both of the brothers laughed.

They could banter for hours, but baked potatoes only took ten minutes, tops. Wilbur asked Tommy to wake up Fundy for dinner, which he did with only a sarcastic complaint. Fundy trudged down the stairs tiredly rubbing at his eyes, but his bouncy disposition returned by the time they were all sat at the table. 

Tommy kickstarted the conversation by asking, “So, Fundy, what did you do today?”

Fundy’s eyes lit up at that question. “So first, Dad cooked pancakes for breakfast, the good ones with the blueberries in them! Those are my favorite. He showed me again how to tie my shoes, but I kind of forgot already. Then we went berry-picking, but we didn’t get too many because it’s still pretty early in the year for that…” 

There was a knock at the door, and Fundy stopped talking. Wilbur got up, telling them it must be Niki, and Fundy nodded and continued rambling about the snowball fight from earlier that day. Tommy listened very closely. 

Wilbur glanced out the window to see two sets of footprints. That should’ve been his warning, but he ignored it. 

When the door creaked open, it was not Niki. 

Standing there, donning matching red and pale blue outfits and kind smiles, was Phil and Techno. Wilbur stared at them with an expression nothing short of unmoving shock. 

“Hey, Wilbur!” Phil spoke up first, not waiting for an answer as he pulled his son into a hug. Either the two didn’t notice or just ignored Wilbur’s panicked stillness, because their demeanor didn’t change a bit. Techno even waved. 

Wilbur gripped the door. “What… what are you two doing here?” 

“We were exploring nearby. We asked some of the villagers in the town over who lives in this fine cabin, and they said you lived here, with…” Phil paused, trying to recall something. “Furly? Something with an ‘F’ I think, right?”

“It’s a pet I have, a little cat. It wanders around a lot so the villagers know it, and uh, some of the lakes get frozen this time of year so I head into town to get fish for it,” Wilbur lied, noticing that Fundy had stopped his chattering.

“You’re telling me you live here _alone?”_ Techno asked. “The place is a bit big for a single person.”

Wilbur chuckled nervously, looking back at his confused son and mortified brother. “You know, I really don’t think this is a good time.” 

“The storm is getting pretty bad, like a last hurrah before spring comes. We wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t have the space, but d’you think we could crash here, just for tonight?” Phil asked. 

The fake courtesy made Wilbur’s blood boil, made him _want_ to shout the words he’d wanted to say for longer than he knew what they meant, made him want to have the imaginary arguments he’d play through his head in the ungodly hours of the night.

But he didn’t say anything.

Instead, there was a call in the background from a distinctly high voice, followed by distinctly light footsteps tip-tapping on the wood floor. “Dad! Who are you talking to?” 

Phil and Techno’s faces dropped at the child that subsequently appeared just behind his father (despite the protests from Tommy, who had attempted to keep the child back but went ignored). 

“They’re friends of mine.” Behind him, Wilbur could hear Tommy making his way from the table, but he wasn’t yet visible to Phil or Techno. 

“Oh!” Fundy exclaimed, “Like Niki and Eret and Tubbo?” 

“Yes,” Wilbur answered, not caring enough to restrain himself from shooting the two family members on his porch (they did not count as such in his mind) a death glare.

“Friends?” Phil donned a look that could only be read as heartbroken yet confused. “Wil, we’re your family.” 

“I think you lost the right to call yourselves that a long time ago,” Tommy interjected with nothing but venom in his voice; such a surprisingly sharp rage pointed at the two outside, it made them turn their heads to identify who actually said it.

“You have some explaining to do, Wilbur,” Techno crossed his arms. 

“Oh, _I_ have some explaining to do? _Me?”_ Wilbur retorted, long-lost anger from when he was twelve years old bubbling up in his voice. What brought him back to real time was the touch of a small hand taking his own. He took a deep breath, turned and kneeled down to his son, instructing, “Could you take your dinner and go upstairs, baby? Please? I want to talk to them alone.” 

The child nodded, yet still pouted. “Can Uncle Tommy take me up?” 

Wilbur and Tommy exchanged the same look they had countless times before, a silent “yes” before Tommy took the child’s hand and led him upstairs (making sure to grab Fundy’s dinner plate and utensils on the way up). Wilbur opened the door for Phil and Techno. 

They walked in and shut the door behind them. For a moment the two only looked around, taking in everything. It looked like someone actually lived there– cacti and alliums in flower pots, extra uneaten baked potatoes on the kitchen table, paintings that Fundy made hanging up on the wall, a flower crown made for Tommy up on the mantel above the fireplace, a cup of an unknown liquid (probably apple juice) placed on a coaster on the fireside table, the snowboots that were sloppily tossed off near the side door, Wilbur’s guitar stood up near the stairs.

It looked **_warm_ ** in there, much warmer than Wilbur’s childhood home. 

Techno broke the silence. “Explain.” 

Wilbur scoffed. “As if I owe you an explanation?”

“Well, you literally have a fucking _child_ , so I’d argue that you do.” 

The three fell silent.

“Seven years,” Wilbur muttered bitterly. “He turns seven years old in two days.”

A faint gasp could be heard from Phil, who had brought his hand to his mouth in shock. “...Why didn’t you tell us?” 

“You wouldn’t have bothered to ever show up. There’s a reason Tommy knows his name and you don’t.” Once more silence rang through the room, only adding to the tension you could already cut with a butterknife. 

Techno appeared so unbothered it was rude. “Who’s the mother? Have we met her?” 

“Sally. That was her name. She was wonderful. She loved to dance. She was a type of graceful like no one I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t keep up a lot of the time, but I never really was taught to dance anyway. You would have loved to meet her. She could charm anyone in five minutes tops. She loved the outdoors– snowy places were her favorite, and it’s why we built a cabin out here in the taiga. Also because foxes are native here, and she could never get enough of those rascals. One day she even caught a pet fox, but it ran away. She enjoyed exploring, just like you– the only difference is that she would actually come back.” 

The rage in Wilbur’s voice was only thinly veiled; Phil noticed this and spoke up. “You’re being all snappy. What do you want to _actually_ say, Wil? Stop beating around the bush and spit it out.”

Wilbur stood still for a moment, wondering why the fuck Phil would have the audacity to say that to him. 

“You know what? Fine. I don’t want either of you anywhere near my son or my home– get the fuck out.” Wilbur spat. He saw Phil begin to protest but stopped that short, “Do you know how many nights I watched the snow cover your tracks until there was no sign you were there at all? Do you know how closely I held Tommy because you fuckers weren’t there to do it? Do you _realize_ I had to read books to teach myself how to light the fireplace because of how many freezing nights I spent in that empty, _cold_ house? I don’t think you do. You never will. You’re too far away on your stupid fucking _expeditions_ to see the holes in Tommy’s sweater that I couldn’t repair because you never taught me how!

“My girlfriend was stolen away from me on the same day my son was given to me. I knew Sally, I loved her, but she was taken away, replaced with a complete blank slate. And yet even in that grief and confusion, I _still_ found the time for my son. You know why? Because I made a promise to myself, to Tommy, and to Fundy, that I would never be like you, Phil _._ You’re a coward who lost the right to call yourself my father a very, _very_ long time ago, and you’re gonna go to hell before you get it back. Everything I’ve built has been in your absence, and it’s seven years too late for a half-assed apology. Now get the fuck out.” 

Phil didn’t have a response, and neither did Techno. Once more, the two left no indication of their presence except their footprints in the snow. 

Wilbur wanted to cry, the guilt of saying hurtful things on purpose pushing itself to the front of his mind. And yet, buried somewhere in his guilt, there was a little pocket of pride, a gold medal awarded to him for facing off one of his demons– it was small but satisfying nonetheless. 

(For a fleeting moment, Wilbur can remember the time before he was overtaken by grief; he can remember the ecstacy of telling everyone in the whole world how delighted he was to soon have a child of his own, all the preparations he’d made and all the late-night conversations he’d had with Sally while they fussed over a name for the baby they had not yet met. He remembers the times those two had danced in the rain, so young yet so naïvely eager to begin a life that was entirely _theirs._ Wilbur certainly remembers how Tommy was the very first to receive the news: he’d taken Sally’s hand and twirled her– just as she’d taught him– and pulled his good friend into a hug, already off on a rant about how lucky the kid was to have such a Big Man as his uncle. 

For a fleeting moment, Wilbur wants it back. He wants to live once more in that intoxicating thrill, he wants to forget the nights he’d look at the child that was _his_ and wonder who he was going to be, he wants to forget the anxiety that settled in his stomach when it sunk in that Sally was _gone_ and it was up to him to mold this tiny person into someone that would love, but more importantly _be loved._ He wishes to forget the embarrassment he would feel when he would weep into his little brother’s arms, the one who was supposed to be the comforted instead of the comforter; and Wilbur certainly wished to forget the nights he’d walk far away into the forest and throw a stone into the river and yell at whatever deity was listening, _did he fuck up?_

But that wish to forget only lasts for a moment, because he knows there is enough love and life in this little home to last for a hundred lifetimes. He knows from the bottom of his goddamn heart that he will die before he gives up even a tiny bit of it.

Wilbur assures himself, with complete certainty, that he did _not_ fuck up.)

What mattered to Wilbur now was Fundy. He rushed up the stairs to his son’s room, only to find Tommy reading a book to him with a music disc playing in the background. Fundy looked perfectly content. 

It is **_warm_ **in Wilbur’s home. 

**Author's Note:**

> let wilbur be angry!!!!!!!! yeah so anyways fuck canon c!phil am i right. hmu on coveredinsun on tumblr if u wanna hear me yell more about how much i despise c!phil :P
> 
> P.S. if u want an idea of the general vibe i was aiming for, PLEASE listen to “what i wanted to hold” by florist!!!!


End file.
